


A Party For the Fade

by Vevici



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Gen, Inquisition Timeline, Warden Carver Hawke, merrill/carver - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-01-30 14:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12655386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: After receiving letters from Varric Tethras bearing news from Adamant Fortress, former Kirkwall residents Fenris, Anders, and Merrill gather to build a team for a possibly one-way mission: to take back Marian Hawke from the Fade.  Unknown to them, another person seems to have joined their party. Perhaps with the addition, all of them might return in once piece.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not regularly updated. I add chapters when I can.

“There’s someone here.”

                Fenris stepped closer to the cliff wall, fingers already wrapped around the hilt of the sword strapped to his back. Loose rocks tumbled down the drop to their left as his companions scrambled to press their backs to the wall, staves in hand.

                “Drakspawn? Or Warden?” Merrill strained on her tiptoes to look over Fenris’ shoulder to the trail ahead.  Not that there was anything to see. The dirt path turned right as it continued its slope to the peak of the mountain, leaving only a view of sand and shrubs hundreds of meters below.

                Crickets droned around them, hidden even from the full moon that bleached the barren mountain where Merrill’s blood magic had led them to.  Past the calls of nocturnal animals and Merrill’s breathing in his ear, Fenris could make out the call of a Wyvern.

                From the rear, Anders hummed. “You know, I can’t tell the difference. But whoever it is carries the taint.”

                Fenris asked, “What would a lone darkspawn be doing here? Don’t they raid in groups?”

                “The mindless drooling ones, yes.”

                Fenris swiped his tongue along his teeth as he shook a pebble from between his toes. With a groan, he asked, “And I assume there is another type that behaves differently?”

                “The talking ones. You can imagine how that goes.”

                Brilliant.

                “Well,” Merrill said with optimism. Or was that cynicism. It was difficult to tell these days. “At least we can try to talk it out of killing us.”

                “Are you sure Carver is here?” Fenris drew his sword as he crept toward the cracked boulder that guarded the turn.

                “Why wouldn’t I be?” Her feet faltered when Fenris glared at her. “This isn’t like last time, I swear. My eyes are open now.”

 _Not like last time._ No, this is unlike anything else, foreign even in Fenris’ nightmares.  Well, perhaps his nightmares had bled into this reality; Hawke was gone _._ Nothing could be worse than that. Not his condonation of Merrill’s blood magic when it suited him, not his hypocrisy as he begged for help from the man he had spurned and insulted. He gripped his sword tighter. For her. Anything for her. Anything to get her back.

                “Closer now,” Anders said. He lifted his staff, its dragon maw spitting tendrils of blue light.

                Fenris slowed his pace, eyes darted ahead and above. If Anders could sense them, then they-

                Wood creaked. Fenris ducked behind the boulder, left arm spread to push Merrill out of the line of fire. Two feet from where he stood, an arrow struck the ground, fletching still quivering from its flight.

                “Darkspawn then.”  He craned his neck to the rocky ledge above them.

                A figure, darker than the sky, loomed over them. In its hands a silver longbow knocked and ready, aimed at Merrill’s head.

                “I know that bow.” Anders pushed off from the wall, cloak snapping as he spun to face their attacker.

                The figure’s hood shifted along with its attention.

                Fenris lowered himself, bent his knees enough to give him spring to move at once. He waited for Anders’ cue as the mage’s hands rose to his hood. For the first time since Fenris had tracked him to his cave, Anders’ hands were steady as he pulled the rough wool from overgrown hair. With hands in the air, he presented his face to the attacker.

                “So not darkspawn?” Merrill said.

                Anders chuckled, the sound like flint stones that could not quite catch. “No. It’s my old Commander.”

_The Hero of Ferelden?_

                Merrill gasped. She twirled around, backed up right into Anders for her eyes were trained solely on the figure. Her lips moved around words that were only for her ears.

                Fenris squinted at the shadows under the hood, eyes strained to pick at her features. Slowly, the longbow was unstrung. Deft hands twirled it around, arms lifting to rest the weapon on its sling. Then she retreated away from the ledge.

                Merrill ran up the trail before Fenris could grab her wrist. Meanwhile Anders scratched his nails through his hair.

                “Can she help?”

                Ander’s eyes were wide, shoulders drawn inward. “I…She probably can.”

                “And will she?”

                A section of blond hair fell over the mage’s eyes from the mussing he did. The tremors were back. Fenris moved away, gave Anders more space when he began to pace.

                “A decade ago, I’m certain she’d help. Now?” he shook his head, “I’m not sure.”

                Fenris’ stomach roiled. “What makes you say that?”

                Anders shrugged. “Things change.”

                The crunch of gravel and the echo of a sob drew them higher to the mountain; Fenris ran ahead, turned in time to see a hand snap around Merrill’s neck and yanked her forward. Fenris’ sword was already raised when the scene registered: it was a reunion. Merrill sagged against the Warden-Commander, arms gripped at her waist as she sobbed into her shoulder, murmuring in elvhen. The Warden whispered in return, soft and firm. Only the tears that escaped her closed eyes marked her sorrow.

                Fenris averted his eyes, sheathed his blade. Far below them, creatures skittered across the sandy planes – their presence known only from flighty shadows and shaking bushes. Anders cleared his throat, directing Fenris’ attention back to Merrill and the woman who had stopped the Fifth Blight. She held Merrill at arm’s length now, nodded once, and then snapped her eyes to Anders.

                The mage stepped forward with a cautiousness Fenris had never seen in him before: It was closer to paranoia back in Kirkwall, now, it was more….uncertainty. He feared a lashing, no doubt. But from the tilt of Ander’s chin, he accepted it. He stopped a feet next to Merrill. “Warden-Commander.”

                The warden’s dark eyes bored into Anders, lips closed yet relaxed, brows smooth. Her _vallaslin_ was a stark contrast against the paleness of her small face. Were it not for her higher footing, she would have disappeared entirely behind Anders’ figure as she took him into an embrace.  Ander’s elbows jerked away from his body, hands hovered, unwilling to touch. Haltingly, he lowered them onto his Commander’s shoulder. Whatever words she said were too muffled against Ander’s chest for Fenris to hear.  But they did loosen the mages’ shoulders.

                Then it was Fenris’ turn.

                She barely reached his eyes, even though she was on higher ground; yet a mantle of command was pinned to her shoulders, and she bore it well. She bore it with as much familiarity and patience as she held Merrill and her grief, Anders and his plight. Fenris drew his hood and The Warden’s eyes scanned him – they lingered on his lyrium mark, glided over his hair, softened on his ears. She sighed; the action seemed to darken the circles under her eyes.

                “Warden-Commander, we-”

                “You can call me Mahariel, Fenris.”

                He nodded, trying and failing to restrain a frown. “You were expecting us, then?”

                The Hero of Ferelden looked them over once again, a beginning of a smile curled at the tips of her lips. Stone and dust rained down on them, one of the bigger stones clipped Fenris in the ear. Overhead, tips of black boots peeked over the ledge and higher still, crystal blue eyes greeted them. Fenris heard Anders mutter, “Of course.” Saw Merrill’s hand fly to her mouth from the corner of his eyes. But all Fenris could do was swallow. Similar eyes; not the same.

                Carver smirked down at them with haughtiness only a little brother could manage. “I told the Commander you’d never pass on a trip to the Fade.”

                There were to be five of them, then.

                Fenris chuckled. “For this one, I would not miss it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Murmurings of the three Grey Wardens cut across the desert wind, their words landing on Fenris’ ears as ghostly as the grit that rode the gusts; yet their quick sharp tones permeated like the sand under his nails and between the joints of his armor. Forts abandoned, Grey Wardens vanishing, a summoning. A calling.

                Fenris slipped his hands out of his gauntlets, frowned at the rasp of leather against silverite. Such sound, in the middle of the dessert night, seemed too harsh on his ears; more so now that they had been accustomed to whispers under the furs of a shared bed, to snickers above the din of a card table, to the crackling of the hearth.

                “That is a rather long talk, don’t you think?”

                His eyes snapped to Merrill across the fire. Even her voice, so often lost in the markets of Kirkwall, pealed louder than the bells on the night the city burned. “Do you understand what they are speaking of?”

                A shake of her head. The glow in her eyes winked out as she cast her gaze at her hands folded on her lap. “Grey Warden stuff, for sure.”

                The campfire made gold of the plates on the gauntlets, turning the tips of the claws into stars within his palms. Her face came into his mind - unbidden, dazzling, as was Hawke’s way. In his mind she wore the golden armor she always talked about. Pure gold; Hammer’s face, complete with lolling tongue and driblling drool embossed on the chest plate. In his mind she waved her arms overhead, greeted him with a shout. Highly impossible in reality; she would hardly be able to stand in such armor, for one. Secondly…

                The daydream shattered at his feet. A hand – small, pale, scarred – gripped his wrist to the point of numbness. “Easy, Fenris.”

                His lips twitched into a snarl, eyes boring into the Warden-Commander’s.

                “You’re bleeding,” she said before he could make any sound. Her hand turned his palm up to reveal rivulets of blood dripping from the spikes of his gauntlets.

                Fenris let the gear clang on the cracked earth, even as the ghostly hand that gripped his chest wound tighter. He dragged a long breath, mouth pursed in effort. “I’m fine.”

                The commander waved a hand, and when she stepped aside, Anders took her place. Fenris’ hands balled, recoiled from bony fingers which reached for him. To his surprise, and begrudging respect, the concern on the mage’s face did not contort into anger or disgust or contempt. Only concentration creased his brow as he turned a palm up. It was then that Fenris noticed the eyes on him – Merrill’s peeking under lashes, the Warden’s watching from the periphery, and Carver’s crystal blue ones staring openly. Shoulders dropping, Fenris presented his hands to Anders. Cold shock zipped up his arms, hammered the bone at both elbows, made him flinch. He ground his teeth, eyes on the blue cloud puffing where his own silverite claws ripped his skin. His scalp prickled, and he wanted nothing more that to tear his hair out. He almost did. Almost tore his hands back, clutched it to his stomach as he curled over.

                Then it was over. Anders withdrew. The night clear of noise, his palm clear of wounds. Only blood remained. Fenris let his hands hang over his knees as his eyes sought Warden Mahariel.

                “Why are we still here?”

                Carver grumbled at the question though he offered no other answer; instead, he sent his Commander a pointed look. Fenris kept his eyes on the Hero of Ferelden. They had not spoken much since meeting each other the night before, Fenris having chosen to keep his own company while the Commander took her Wardens aside.  

                “We’re waiting for contact from Kal-Shirol,” the commander answered, settling close to the fire with her legs folded underneath her.  “A member of the Legion of the Dead.”

                Carver grunted, a smirk playing on his lips. “They’d better not send Gorel again. Likely to find my way out of the Deep Roads blind and on my own.”

                “He likes his detours.”

                Anders cleared his throat, eyes shifting between his old commander and his old friend. “And what is it we need a Legionnaire for, exactly?”

                Fenris shared the confusion. They had met with Carver; it was time to make their way to Skyhold. He saw no point to dallying.

                A bitter taste seemed to purse Anders’ lips. “Please don’t tell me we’re taking the Deep Roads. You know I hate the Deep Roads.”

                “The Deep Roads?” Merrill said, as if the words woke her from a nap. “I’ve never been there. Hawke never brought me there.”

                Fenris winced. Though the blow of her name was sudden, he was able to hide it with a scowl. “Count yourself lucky. Or perhaps not, since it appears we are travelling underneath Orlais instead of across it.”

                At that Warden Mahariel lifted her chin from her palm and shook her head. “We’re only taking one tunnel that will lead us directly to the peak of the Blasted Hills, where an _eluvian_ is waiting to take us to Amaranthine, from where we’ll be sailing to Kirkwall.”

                The camp erupted in questions and objections and accusations. Fenris himself raised his voice above the uproar. Why must they go back to Kirkwall of all places? Through an _eluvian_? Such as the mirror Merrill had purified using a demon? Could it be trusted? How will it take them to Amaranthine?

                Merrill had shot to her tiptoes at one point, balancing herself by the tight grip she hand on Warden Mahariel’s shoulder. Her free arm flailed in the air in excitement. “A working _eluvian_? A real working _eluvian_! And I was right: they’re portals!”

                Anders and Carver seemed to agree on taking turns telling their commander of the rather unpolished plan they’ve been offered. The latter went so far as to call the Hero of Ferelden reckless, an adjective often used on him. Warden Mahariel shot to her feet at that, a hand raised for silence along with a sharp, “Enough.”

                One by one, the group settled back on their seats, Fenris being the last one standing. “Kirkwall,” he said – a question, objection, and accusation.

                Warden Mahariel crossed her arms, her eyes on Merrill as she spoke. “I’ve been told that there is an _eluvian_ in Kirkwall – one powerful enough to connect to the Fade. Locked inside one of the vaults belonging to Master Varric Tethras.”

                The Dalish women shared a long look, a silent conversation between family. Merrill seemed to mirror Warden Mahariel’s posture – arms crossed, back straight. Finally, the former shook her head, a frown on her brow. “I didn’t repair it, _lethallan_. I couldn’t. Not after Keeper Marethari.”

                A soft glint came into the commander’s eyes as she crouched in front of Merrill. Her voice was a hair above a whisper, but Fenris heard the words as clear as Hawke’s electric eyes: “I know how to activate the _eluvian,_ Merrill _._ And by the time we set foot in Kirkwall, you will too.”

                Warden Mahariel set a leather-bound book on Merrill’s lap. Where it came from, Fenris didn’t notice, but he now saw that curling marks adorned much of the cover; and when Merrill turned the book in her hands, he caught glimpse of a slender structure, wrapped with vine-work, rising to a pointed arch.

                Then Fenris found himself looking into the commander’s dark eyes.

                “We’ll get Marian Hawke back. You have my word.” She locked eyes with each of them, voice so soft, so calm, that the claws of doubt finally released Fenris’ heart.

                They will bring Hawke home. They had to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders gets his chance to talk with his previous Commander. Perhaps talking about the past could help Anders look to the future and see it brighter.

Nothing was worse than the Deep Roads. Well, maybe the Circle of Magi. At the very least, the Deep Roads allowed you to fight for your survival; in some ways, braving the tunnels and those it housed trained those foolish, valiant souls how to fight. If only the stone maze didn’t ooze black slime that infected the living with the darkspawn taint. Anders had already lost one friend to the Grey Wardens in that manner. Now, there were two others who risked the sickness. But it was for Hawke; and so, Anders didn’t protest their descent.

                “Anything up front?” Anders called above the heads of his companions, voice rolling off the cavern.

                “Nothing,” came the matter-of-fact reply of Mahariel. She kept two paces behind Carver and the Legionnaire Gorel, who swapped tales of the Paragon tournament and the lack of fighting within the Deep Roads.

                Anders frowned, picking a groove on his glowing staff with the nail of his thumb. “You don’t find that suspicious?”

                Carver laughed, head-ache inducing within tight quarters. “Suspicious? I’d call this a blessing. Hunting the creatures is great and all; but we’re in a hurry.”

                They followed the ever babbling Gorel deeper underground, sometimes squeezing into crevices where only Mahariel and Merrill passed through without grunting and swearing. Carver had to remove his plate, and Fenris decided to grate through the path. Anders, thin though he may be, was just as tall as Carver. Three feet of narrow passage can feel like and eternity when one had to bend in half while trying not to trip and crack open his skull. When they emerged on the other side—panting and scratched, Gorel turned to them and gestured his lantern to a bend on their left that sloped upward.

                “Tha’s gunna take you to th’ surface, now,” he said, voice even scratchier than the rock walls.

                “You’re not coming?” Mahariel asked.

                “Nah, Brigan’s waitin’ for me.” He raised an arm and turned right, down a tunnel Anders hadn’t noticed until the torch touched it.

                Five of them were left in the blue light of Ander’s staff and the yellow sphere of Merrill’s barrier. A barrier that supposedly helped to block the taint. This time, Anders put all his faith in Merrill’s word.

                “I thought we’d be travelling underground longer,” Fenris said, adjusting the sword on his back. “I’m glad to think wrongly.”

                Mahariel shrugged. “I’d rather not expose you to the taint for more than six hours.”

                Carver grunted at that. “Could’ve used that time limit years ago.”

                For the first time since seeing Mahariel again, a real smile graced her face—a bit of teeth and dimples in her right cheek. “That’s not what you said when you met—”

                Carver clamped his huge hand over Mahariel’s mouth and began pulling her toward the exit tunnel. “Now, now, Commander. No time to reminisce; we’re on a schedule.”

                Images stirred in Ander’s mind: a long table filled with warm dishes, seats so crowded that elbows knocked spoons from calloused hands; a dark-haired man who greeted dawn with his arrows, a perky dwarf who sat on his shoulders after a winning bet; a rare gift that sang the most beautiful song. All that Anders saw before his eyes, only to be banished by a grip on his elbow.

                Dark eyes, more black than violet in the dim light, flicked across his face. “You were in a daze.”

                Anders shook his head clear. “It happens.” He headed toward the tunnel, and he felt his shoulders relax when Mahariel didn’t let go.

                “We should talk,” she said.

                “I thought we were on a schedule?” Anders managed to joke, which Mahariel replied with a chuckle.

                “We have time.”

 

They sat by the perfectly rectangular hole on a crescent-shaped niche along the mountain spine. A blue glow shimmered from beyond the entrance and drew shadows of Carver, Fenris, and Merrill between the two wardens’ feet.

                Anders laid his staff across his knees, palms cold from the iron shaft. “Before you begin, let me tell you that I’ve heard every insult and lecture from both friends and strangers, more from those I wished to help. I understand their anger; but I still do not regret my actions.”

                Mahariel sighed, shoulders slumped as she pulled her feet up on the stretch of stone she sat on. “I have no right to judge you, old friend. You know some of the things I’ve done to study the Blight. And that was only when you were with the wardens.”

                Anders reeled at what she said. Perhaps he hasn’t heard everything yet. “What exactly have you done? Wait, never mind. Let’s not discuss that now. First, really? No ‘you should have thought this through?’ No ‘you’ve taken this too far?’”

                “Do you need to be lectured again?”

                Anders frowned. “Surely you have an opinion on this. You’re usually the first to bend over backwards to take the peaceful way.”

                Mahariel chuckled. “I killed Rylock, remember?”

                How could he forget? The moment Mahariel’s blade opened the templar’s throat was the first time Anders felt the breeze of freedom. “She forced your hand; you didn’t have a choice then.”

                She closed her eyes and leaned her head on the stone wall. “Either I turn you in or I kill her; those were my choices.”

                Silence settled between them. Inside the shallow cavern of the _eluvian_ , paper crinkled. Most likely Merrill studying the book Mahariel gave her.

                “Do you regret your actions?” Anders eventually asked.

                The answer came instantly. “What I regret is being absent when you needed a friend the most. Between the two of us, we could have made a bomb that _implodes_.”

                His mouthed opened, ready for a defense. Then he snapped his jaw shut. “I would have preferred that.”

                With the moons and the green tear in the sky shining on her face, Anders thought of the giant statue of the Hero of Ferelden in Denerim: austere and immovable yet comforting. The longsword Vigilance planted between her feet, glowing with the golden names of those who died to end the Fifth Blight. The names went on and on, until they spilled into the vambraces then up the breastplate.

                “You are a hero, you know,” Mahariel said, snapping Anders back to the present. “The soldiers and wardens of Vigil’s Keep are alive because of you.”

                “What about the mages hunted by the templars and the Inquisition? Am I a hero to them or a monster?”

                “Both.” Again, that casual tone. “It really depends on who you ask, doesn’t it?”

                A hero and a monster. The honest answer somehow loosened his shoulders, eased his breathing. He had done what he thought was right, he had done what justice demanded. And here was someone who understood the weight of a great cause, who understood that there was always a price to pay and sacrifices to be made. How many people in Thedas thought as the Warden-Commander did? How many understood that he did what needed to be done to better the lives of mages? If Mahariel did, if Marian, Garrett, and Bethany did, then others surely could too.

                “Andraste’s tits, it’s good to talk to you again, Mahariel.”

                She grinned, flashing that one-sided dimples of hers. “Likewise, Anders. I have gifts for you, by the way, if you’ll have them.”

                Anders leaned forward as Mahariel dug in a purse tied to her thigh. Without opening her eyes, she stretched an arm and dropped three items onto his palm. A golden earing, a folded paper, and a small leather bundle.

                “Careful with that wrapped one,” Mahariel said.

                She didn’t have to. Anders heard the chimes, the ringing, the humming. Lyrium. He pocketed the earring first with a mental note to ask Merrill to re-pierce his ear. Then he opened the piece of paper, gasped as he stared at a sketch of a tabby laying on the floor, four kittens tucked into her belly.

                “Ser Pounce-a-lot, you’re a mommy now!” he cooed, to Mahariel’s laughter. Anders didn't mind. He had missed the sound.

                Lastly, he unwrapped the leather from the special ring. It landed on his palm with a hiss followed by the smell of burning flesh. Anders closed his fingers around it, gritting his teeth. Then Justice bloomed within his chest, enveloped his mind and body.

                “I thought I had lost it,” he said, voice echoing. “I have forgotten how the song ends.”

                He closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the lyrium hushed. The ring sat, harmless, in the middle of his palm. Anders looked up to find Mahariel’s eyes on him, wide and glowing from the _eluvian’s_ light.

                “I’m sorry,” she said. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt you.”

                Shaking his head, Anders pocketed the ring. “It won’t hurt anymore. Thank you.”

                Mahariel took a deep breath, then stood up. “Let’s rest, shall we? You humans will have difficult time travelling tomorrow.”

                Anders chuckled. “You still give the best presents. But you really need to improve your humor, old friend.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It has been more than ten years since Merrill's friends were taken from her in one never-forgotten day. Only the disappearance of yet another friend managed to reunite them, and everything has changed.

Merrill’s eyes throbbed like it never had before. Well, maybe once, when she received that dreaded letter from Varric, which was still tucked into the inside pocket of her pack without evidence of it being torn to shreds and soaked in tears. This time, however, the sting in her eyes didn’t come from crying but from roaming the thin dark brown pages of the grimoire Mahariel had given her a night ago. She was in the middle of the two-inch-thick book now and had no intention of stopping. The edges of her mind could almost see what she had missed all those years ago: she had the mirror, she had the knowledge, but she didn’t have the key. Merrill drew a finger down the page, tracing a closed, then later an open amulet—oval, with an engraving of a halla—

                “Sweet Creators!” The book tumbled to the ground and would have passed through the mirror if Merrill hadn’t pulled it back with thread of magic.

                A grumble came from a corner where the _eluvian_ ’s light didn’t reach, followed by rustling of blankets.

                “Sorry, Fenris,” Merrill whispered before clambering to her toes and out into the night. Or rather, early morning.

                As she peered through the darkness in front of the entrance, hugging the grimoire to her chest, Merrill cast a pulse of energy which ballooned out from her feet in a phantom breeze. The pulse wobbled above and behind her, making her turn. There, on the lip that loomed over the cave mouth and blocked the light from shining to the sky, Mahariel lounged on her side, a hand cupped to her lips. Merrill waved her hand to let her know she wished to talk, and Mahariel answered with a raised finger.

                Nodding, Merrill sat crossed-leg as far as the _eluvian_ ’s light reached, her back to Mahariel, and opened the grimoire on her lap again. Her eyes, which she found were no longer throbbing, compared the image of the amulet to the one in her memories, to the one Mahariel had placed on her palm and claimed to belong to her father and left by her mother. Smooth stones peered from the halla’s eyes, though Merrill could not know if they were supposed to be sapphires or another stone. But did it matter? How likely is it to find a liking of an amulet that belonged to your sister on a book that dated back to the Dales? Not very likely. And to find it in a book specifically about _eluvians_!

                Merrill pressed a hand to her forehead as memories rushed at her. A shemlen entering the camp, Mahariel slung over his shoulder, bloodless lips, frozen hands, blazing fever, melted silver, burnt flesh. Ironbark pendant. The shattering of Merrill’s wide gaze as the shemlen brought his sword on the mirror that took Tamlen.

                “It’s a key,” Merrill gasped.

                “You mean this?”

                Merrill jumped, head snapping around to see Mahariel crouched next to her, her amulet held from her chest with two fingers. “You scared me, sister. As usual.”

                “It’s good to hear our words after so long in the company of humans,” Mahariel said, fully seating herself across Merrill.

                The latter’s eyes widened, the she giggled. “I didn’t notice—yes, yes, it’s very good. Sometimes I feared I would forget. But I never do. I taught the language to the elves in Kirkwall, you know; and they took to it like fire on kindling. I think even Fenris understands some of it, though I could never tell. He gives me a look at times and—oh, I’m rambling.”

                Mahariel smiled, shoulders raising. “And how I’ve missed it.”

                Merrill laughed again; she couldn’t help herself. There was a playfulness in Mahariel’s eyes that Merrill thought she would never see again after Tamlen disappeared. And she never got the chance to help bring it back because the Warden took her away. Looking at her sister now, she almost smelled the warm sun on wild flowers and heard Fenarel’s flute drifting in the breeze as the warmth of her friends wrapped around her.

                “Lethallan,” Mahariel whispered, fingertips on Merrill’s cheek.

                It was only then that she realized she was crying. She slapped her hands to her face, scrubbing the wet trails from her face. “I’m sorry. I just remembered…Oh, by Mythal’s favor.”

                Mahariel opened her arms and Merrill pressed into them, buried her face against the crook of a neck that smelled of lemon and rosemary, and brought images of green sails and white linens snapping in the wind. The scent only pulled more tears from eyes and shook her shoulders. A circle of warmth bloomed across her back, called forth by Mahariel’s gentle hand. By the end of the minute or the hour, whichever, Merrill’s eyes were not only throbbing again, but also swollen. She imagined they were bloodshot. Yet even as her sobs stopped, she did not pull from the only clanmate who did not resent her for their Keeper’s death.

                When Merrill had enough of the wind howling against the lower half of the mountain, she finally sat straight enough to look at Mahariel. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep my promise.” The latter stiffened, and Merrill wondered if she should have talked about that particular past. Then she felt her sister’s muscles sag against her.

                “I found him, sister,” Mahariel sighed, then glanced down. “Then I lost him again.”

                A lump formed in Merrill’s throat. She nodded for her to continue. Mahariel’s gaze dropped to the gravel disturbed by their tangled legs, and she seemed lost for a while. Merrill leaned her head on her shoulder again, waiting for the painful memories to leave Mahariel alone, enough for her to speak. When she did, Merrill had to slow her breathing to hear her words.

                “I thought I saw him at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Or his spirit, at least.”

                “In the temple that exploded?”

                A nod and a half-smile. “Long before it blew up, of course.”

                “Of course.” Merrill patted her thigh. “You believed the spirit was him.”

                One of Mahariel’s hand flew to clutch her amulet, but she didn’t seem to notice her own movements. “I wanted to, Merrill. His last words to me…he asked me to let go, Merrill. He didn’t blame me. And I wanted to believe that. The guilt was too much, and I wanted to—” Her eyes snapped down to the hand around her amulet, snatched that hand away, then shut her eyes.

                Now it was Merrill’s turn to rub circles on Mahariel’s back. “Whether it was really him or not, he is right, you know. You’re not to blame.” Even if the reason the mirror activated hung around Mahariel’s neck. But Merrill didn’t voice that last part. No one could have known. Not without the ancient book now resting on her lap.

                “It wasn’t him,” Mahariel said after a few deep breaths. The tightness in her voice made Merrill think the former wished otherwise. “Tamlen was alive all along, Merrill. All that time, he was alive and suffering from the taint until—” her eyes landed on Merrill, wide and glassy “—I killed him. Merrill, killed Tamlen.”

                Merrill didn’t want to gasp, to rip herself from Mahariel’s embrace, to cover her mouth with her hands as she stared. But she did. She did all of it as new tears pooled in her eyes. Her head was shaking before she could register the blank mask that pulled over Mahariel’s face. “You could never hurt him, sister. Never.”

                A sob echoed in the night. Merrill’s or Mahariel’s, neither was sure.

                “I didn’t want to, Merrill,” Mahariel said, hoarse despite the lack of yelling. “You have to understand. No matter how much I wanted to heal him, he was too tainted. It was too late. I couldn’t save him like the wardens saved me. I didn’t want to, but he asked—begged me to…to kill him. Because if I didn’t, he would kill me.”

                Merrill winced, then braced her palm against her temples. Before she could ask, Mahariel continued, “He was hearing the archdemon. In his head. And it wanted Alistair and me dead.”

                “Elgar’nan,” Merrill whispered, hands over her racing heart. “That’s messed up.”

                Mahariel looked at her then, eyes seemed clear of the blank veil that had covered her true feelings. And she chuckled. “Strange phrase, but yes.”

                The two of them stared at each other, studying each other’s faces, waiting for the other’s reaction. As Merrill ran the unexpected confession through her mind again, she realized why Mahariel had easily forgiven her for her mistake at Sundermount.

                “How did we come to this?” Merrill asked, pulling Mahariel to her. She ran her fingers down the waist-long waves of dark hair along Mahariel’s back as she watched the green scar that marred the night sky. Somewhere beyond that crack was Hawke, and the Dread Wolf take her if Merrill should fail to save yet another friend.


End file.
